


Thou Shalt Not

by SandrC



Series: Eldritch-tober 2020 [14]
Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Doodler!Henry, Gore, Oakvale Bad End, Religious Themes, eldritch horror, soft Oakson if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Sacrifice your golden calf. Burn your false idols. There is only one god.(Henry drowns inside his own mind.)
Series: Eldritch-tober 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950820
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Thou Shalt Not

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 13: God
> 
> I couldn't not do another Doodler!Henry fic. I have a theme I'm following.
> 
> Sorry for the fucky pronoun usage but the Doodler aspect of Henry uses they/them but Henry as a host uses he/him so they mix. He-they is the Doodler, he-Henry is not.
> 
> General warning for eldritch horror fuckery and also the mention of the death of Barry and several Oakvale residents in gorey ways.

The instant he gives in, he wonders why he fought it in the first place.

This feels... _wonderful_!

The power that tears from his body—ejecting like vomit from his mouth, like tears from his eyes, like blood from his veins in large gouts that would kill any _mortal_ being—is loud and humming and reassures him that _nothing of this world could hurt him-them anymore._ Not his-Henry's _shit_ father—torn to meaty strips beneath his-their claws and with his-their teeth until _nothing_ remained but his memory and the blood in his-their mouth. Not his-Henry's friends—and _are_ they still his-their friends? They _screamed_ , confused, still, eyes wide with terror, two-legged twiggy _things_ with small minds, _too_ small to understand his-their majesty. Not Willy _fucking_ Stampler and Bill _fucking_ Close and _whatever else_ is planning on trying to kill them and stop them from returning home.

But, now... _does_ he-they want to go home? Isn't _this_ home? Here, in Faerûn, this small confining place of magic and mayhem, isn't this where he-Henry was _born_? What _is_ home to him-Henry?

He-they are home wherever he-they _decide_. Home is wherever _he-they_ have decided to stay. Home is _his-their_ decision. _Not_ some arbitrary word.

 _Mercedes_ , he-Henry thinks, longing. Is that home for him-them? Or just home for _him-Henry_? He-they is unsure. He-they doesn't want to think about it too much. It isn't worth his-their time or precious, _glorious_ brainpower.

His-their claws gib Ri'Oak homunculi across the walls and he-Henry balks but he-they continue because he-they are a _god_ and why would he-they _care_ about twiggy two-legged mud constructs? They aren't even _alive_. They have no mind to be broken by his-their glory. They have no soul to offer to him-them in worship. They have _no purpose_ save minor amusement.

He-they let out a sound of excited joy. Do his-Henry's friends _see_? Do they _understand_ what he-they are now?

He-they are a _god_! He-Henry's friends should bow down and _worship_ him-them. Any and _every_ twiggy two-legged thing should throw themselves at his-their feet, _begging_ for him-them to devour them and make them something more. _Better_.

But they _don't_.

One of his-Henry's friends—stocky, bearded, defiant, _scared_ , filling his-Henry's racing human heart with some weird chemical cocktail that causes it to rush, antithetical to proper heart operation—stares up at him-them, face drawn in...his-Henry's mind supplies that the emotion this one is expressing is _abject horror_ , though he-they know it is the expression two-legged things make before they do the _right_ thing and _worship_ him-them. He-they move his-their hand down to _gently_ pick him up. _Careful_ , because he-Henry screams internally and claws at his-their shared mind in panic. He-they _hate_ the feeling of him-Henry panicking. It _hurts_ and he-they don't _like_ hurting. He-they know he-Henry will soon drown in his-their shared consciousness though. He-they know that he-Henry will no longer be an issue. He-Henry will soon not cause him-them pain.

 _For now_ , he-they act in his-Henry's interest, in accordance with his-Henry's loudest thoughts. To prevent the pain.

 _For now_ , he-they will _not_ hurt his-Henry's friends. He-they pick up the bearded one and hold him close to where his-their face is. He-they fight his-their shape to _speak_ , channeling his-Henry's thoughts.

" **D...on't be a...fraid. We...won't hurt...you.** "

The two-legged thing he-Henry thinks is his-Henry's friend doesn't speak. _Still_ , the look on his face is terror-worship and he shakes in his-their hand and does not move, does not make eye-contact, does not _try_ and understand— _comprehend_ —him-them.

_(Good-bad)_

" **We...are he...re to h...elp. We are... _fixing_ it. We...will go...home.**"

Where _is_ his-their home? _What_ is his-their home? What are _he-they_?

(He-Henry is _gasping_ for air, struggling deep inside his-their mind. He-they do not care because he-Henry disappearing will not affect the existence of him-them. He-they have already been let out. He-they _cannot_ be put back. He-they have already been put back and he-they _will not_ experience that again. _Never_ again.)

The two-legged in his-their hand lets out a broken noise. His mind is intact—he-they huff because _he won't look at him-them_ , won't _try_ to understand him-them, and this _hurts_ his-Henry's feelings because he-Henry thinks _fondly_ of him—and he-they _want_ him to look at him-them because he-they _wants_ his opinion.

" **Are...we not...gl...orious?** " He-they asks, while he-Henry is busy choking. " **Are...we not...worth your wor...ship?** " He-they remember _someone_ like this two-legged extending a hand and being _taken_ and becoming part of his-their worship in the place Between. He-they know time is a _human_ construct and he-they _appreciate_ the amusing irony. " **Dar...ryl. Don't you...sing the praises of Go...d?** "

(He-Henry projects, _violent_ , a four-legged thing made of a soft yellow metal. An image of a mountain, stark contrast against a dry desert and thunderous storms in the sky. A man, breaking laws in frustration, tablets shattering. Fires and smelting and false _false **false**_. He-they ignore it. _He-Henry_ is false. He-they are _true_. It is immutable.)

And the two-legged thing does not answer, eyes unfocused, broken. _(False.)_

He-they sigh, sad. _(False.)_

He-Henry drowns at last.

_(False.)_


End file.
